


going the same

by nightquills



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Chauffeur!Andrew, Developing Relationship, M/M, Unspecified Mafia Business, Unspecified Setting, Vaguely 1950s-ish, canon-typical abuse, description of injury, is this angsty enough to warrant that tag? idk but we’re going for it, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29169546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightquills/pseuds/nightquills
Summary: Andrew gets far more than he bargained for with his new job as a driver for one Mr. Nathan Wesninski.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 22
Kudos: 217
Collections: AFTG Mixtape Exchange 2021





	going the same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rooftopkisses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooftopkisses/gifts).



> Alright!!! I totally apologize for this being a few days late, but we are HERE at last!
> 
> This is a gift for [rooftopkisses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooftopkisses/pseuds/rooftopkisses) for the [aftg-mixtape](https://aftg-mixtape.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> The song that rooftopkisses chose—and that I pulled the title from—is ["Moonriver" by Frank Ocean](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dHxMK9quos). I tried to go for that sort of melancholy, yearning, longing vibe—I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Quick shoutout to [Ominous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ominous/pseuds/Ominous) for listening and nudging me along as I was spitballing ideas for this, and to [StJosten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stjosten/pseuds/Stjosten) for sitting with me and reading this over every 0.2 seconds as I was writing. Thank you so much, lovelies!

When Andrew started his new job, he knew it wouldn't go anywhere. You'd think that rich people would pay well, but alas—he's making just over minimum wage for some fuck that could probably shit hundred dollar bills and not miss them.

Oh well. So it goes. At the very least, his new job as a driver means that he was able to quit his position as a line cook, which left him smelling of onions and garlic and dead on his feet every night. Motor-oil under his fingernails, he can handle—especially when he gets to be up close and personal with such a lovely vehicle.

The rich fuck's car is almost exactly what Andrew would buy for himself, if given the chance and the money—strong and sleek, black paint and butter-soft leather. His first day on the job, after he's been given the uniforms he's expected to wear (which are monogrammed, of all things) and the rules he's expected to follow from the head of staff, he spends an hour looking it over in the garage behind the gaudy house, examining every inch of the interior and engine and even dragging over the creeper seat to take a look underneath.

After familiarizing himself with every aspect of the car and tinkering with what he can, he spends a futile five minutes trying to remove the grease from his hands. His hands remain stubbornly stained, and he sighs. Thankfully his uniforms have been freshly dry cleaned and are protected by plastic garment bags, so he gives up and hooks the hangers through his fingers to rest them over his shoulder.

As he walks around the house to leave the front gate, he sees movement in his peripheral view. He turns to look and catches a flash of red disappearing behind the drapes of one of the upstairs windows. Andrew raises an eyebrow, but after a minute of no further movement, continues on his way. He's not being paid enough to try and uncover any mysteries here—in fact, if this "businessman" is as shady as he suspects, Andrew's probably better off purposefully ignoring anything the slightest bit off. Plausible deniability and all that. If someone wants to talk to him, they can damn well come down and tell him so themselves.

* * *

Andrew was right that his new boss is shady as shit—and a real piece of work, to boot. Andrew knows this from their first meeting.

The man, Mr. Nathan Wesninski, is one of those people whose attractiveness is instantly negated by the cruelty seeping from his every action, every glance and every word. His blue eyes are sharp and assessing, treacherous ice over arctic waters that Andrew knows will crack and drag him under at the slightest misstep. They sweep across Andrew's figure like Wesninski is far from impressed with what he sees, but still documenting any and all weaknesses he can find as a matter of habit.

If Andrew were a dog, his shackles would be raised. As it is, he's torn between straightening his back further under the man's gaze, or slouching his shoulders further in defiance. He stands stock still as a compromise, pushing down his fighting instincts and meeting his stare head-on.

In that moment, Andrew is especially glad for the knives he has strapped to calves. It's not as convenient a place as his forearms, but he wouldn't be able to access them there with the long sleeves of his monkey suit in the way. For the last few days since trying on his uniform, he's practiced bending and drawing his knives in the mirror until he can do it in one fluid motion. It's enough that he's fairly confident he could have them in his palms at a moment's notice.

He isn't given actual cause to use his knives in Wesninski's presence, though he's certainly tempted more than once. It turns out that the rumors around town regarding the… less than scrupulous nature of his boss’ business are true. Andrew isn’t involved in any of it, but it’s made very clear to him that anything he does see, anything he does suspect, is something he’d do very well to keep his mouth shut about. 

There’s also the fact that the man puts his sharp eyes and sharper tongue to frequent use. 

First, it's the routes that Andrew takes—how they're not the shortest ones, as though Andrew doesn't have an eidetic memory and didn't buy and memorize the gas station maps for the entire greater Baltimore area. Next, it’s the traffic—like Andrew wasn't the one left waiting by the curb for Wesninski to leave his fucking house on time, like it’s Andrew’s fault that there’s traffic on the road. 

Andrew thought himself largely numb, but this job has shown him that that’s not as true as he wishes it to be. His employer still inspires that unease by his very presence, that pressed-down rage with every unrealistic expectation he lays on Andrew’s shoulders. 

Andrew is almost surprised at himself with that last one; he’s long since realized the world is unfair, that it isn’t a kind place and that he shouldn’t be surprised when it reveals that fact to him yet again. Yet here he is, somehow not as numb as he thought he was. It’s an unpleasant revelation. 

* * *

Andrew is leaning against the outside of the garage, cigarette in hand as he stares at the car. He’s taken off his suit jacket and button-down, leaving him in just his undershirt and empty armbands. 

That’s another thing that Wesninski complains about—how the scent of Andrew’s cigarettes permeates the entire car. Andrew thinks that if it’s that bad, the man can just roll down a window… But he’s also not willing to press the issue and be fired or have his pay docked. Things are tight enough as it is at the moment, with his monthly checks to John Hopkins University. Not that he’s getting thanked for them. 

Thus, the capitulation: Andrew tries to keep the scent of smoke off of his clothes as much as possible, and he’s even hung one of those shitty little air fresheners from the rear view mirror. The creators must be smoking something more than cigarettes if they think that those things smell “Pine Fresh,” but alas. Andrew is but a simple chauffeur. 

He’s back to his new past-time of staring at the second-floor window whose drapes occasionally move when the house’s backdoor opens, and who else comes out but his oh-so-illustrious employer. 

“Minyard,” he says, voice sharp and commanding attention. Andrew would say he sounds angry, but that’s pretty much the man’s default state. Nothing to write home about there. 

Andrew drops his cigarette on the gravel and crushes it beneath his heel. “Sir,” he replies, voice bone dry. 

“Errand for you,” he says, rattling off an address in a not-so-savory part of town. So it’s one of _those_ errands. “Drop off. Be quick about it.” 

Andrew nods and moves towards the car. 

“Wait,” Wesninski calls. “You’re forgetting something.” 

The back door opens again, and out staggers a slumped figure heavily favoring one side. The figure looks up, and Andrew is met with the sight of a Nathan clone. 

Well, almost. The coloring is the same, but the clone is younger, for sure. The grimace on his face, contorted in pain, shows off a similar bone structure to Wesninski—sharp angles and cheekbones—except for a softer jaw and something less severe around his eyes and lips. 

Something almost pretty, if that was a word that Andrew used. If that was a quality he was willing to associate with anything even tangentially related to his employer. 

Andrew sees the man stagger and notices that Wesninski, who is standing far closer, makes no move to help. For the moment, Andrew takes his cues from that. He ignores the rage beginning to curl in his belly, because the picture taking shape before him is beginning to look all too familiar.

He instead focuses on putting on his button-down and jacket, on turning on the car and making sure the back seat is clear and clean. He settles himself in and buckles his seatbelt, places his hands on the steering wheel and stares at the scars on his knuckles. 

He very pointedly doesn’t look in any of his mirrors as the back door opens and the man heavily folds himself into the car. He doesn’t listen to the ragged breaths, doesn’t listen to the weak slam of the door, doesn’t listen to the thump of someone throwing their body back against the seat. 

“Seatbelt,” he says, and puts the car into drive. He glances up at the house and sees Wesninski senior standing in the door, tall and unrepentant. Andrew makes eye contact with him, in that moment. He holds it as long as he can. He knows his face is flat, but he hopes something of his judgement comes through in his eyes. 

Wesninski stands tall, unrepentant. Andrew eventually averts his eyes so that he doesn’t slam into the side of the pretty, fake, facade of a home. He forces himself to take a deep breath, to put thoughts of past bruises and scrapes and broken bones from his mind. 

Andrew forces himself to focus on pulling out of the driveway, on merging and turning his way onto the highway. 

He’s mostly pushed his anger deep below his skin when he looks in the rear view mirror and is met with a pair of blue eyes looking right at him. There’s another difference—where Wesninski’s eyes are icy, cold and calculated, his son’s eyes are azure. Still piercing, but in a way that feels more like the sky beckoning above you, daring you to try and fly. And god knows Andrew is afraid of heights. 

Andrew averts his eyes before he does something even more stupid than pining over a stranger’s eyes, like crashing the car he’s driving into the median. 

He focuses on the road ahead of him, but of course his passenger takes that as his cue to speak up. “So,” he says through teeth gritted in pain, “you’re Minyard.” What an astute observation. “Is there a first name to go along with that?” 

“I could ask the same of you, Mr. Wesninski,” Andrew responds, and practically feels the flinch the other man makes at that. 

Well, Andrew has never claimed to have any tact. 

“Neil. Just Neil,” the other man says firmly. 

Andrew offers up his own name in a silent almost-apology.

There’s a moment of silence, but then Neil is speaking up again, like now that the silence has been broken he can’t leave it well enough alone. "How did you start working for my father?” Neil asks. 

“The same way any of us start working for anyone: needing the money,” Andrew replies. 

“And—and is it worth it?”

Andrew shakes his head. “What do you think? It’s the means to an end.” 

“I’d choose just about any other means, if I were you,” Neil says.

Yeah. Andrew bets that he would, if his suspicions are right. Curiosity gets the better of him, despite the fact that he knows he won’t be satisfied with any answer he’s bound to receive. Andrew finds himself asking, flatly, “What happened.”

“Oh, you know,” Neils says nonchalantly, like Andrew can’t see him clutching his ribs, “I’m just so clumsy. Had a nasty run-in with the stairs.”

Just as Andrew expected—he’s sure seen a fair share of run-ins with the stairs in his day. “The stairs sure have a nasty temper,” he responds, not caring this time if he’s being fair or tactful. 

Neil goes silent, and a quick glance back shows that he’s looking out the window like the grimy Baltimore cityscape is the most interesting thing in the world. Andrew clutches the steering wheel tighter between his fingers until the tendons there are stark white. 

Eventually Andrew pulls up to the address Wesninski had given him. It’s a shady, seedy clinic—not what one would expect from the amount of money that his employer has, but it certainly looks like a place that would provide treatment with no questions asked. 

The second that Andrew pulls to the curb, Neil is climbing out of the car as quickly as he’s able, disappearing inside the doors of the clinic without a backwards glance.

Andrew contemplates waiting for him for a moment, but then Wesninski’s words come back to him. He spares just a thought as to how Neil will be getting back to the house, and then forcefully reminds himself that he’s not getting paid enough for this. 

* * *

After that stellar first interaction, Andrew thought that he wouldn’t be seeing much more of Neil.

Paid or not, however, it soon becomes clear that interacting with Neil might as well be considered part of the job. Neil seems to make it his mission to slither into Andrew’s life and get under his skin, and damn if he isn’t succeeding.

Once they’ve met, Andrew seems to see him everywhere—when he goes to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, Neil is there. When Andrew takes a smoke break, Neil is there to bum a cigarette like he’s the one who probably can’t afford to be buying them. When Andrew turns to glance at the house, at that window and its moving drapes, Neil is there, just staring. When Andrew flicks him a sarcastic salute, the little shit starts returning it. 

It even seems like Wesninski is tasking him with driving his son around, too, now that they’ve met and Andrew hasn’t blabbed. It’s definitely not as common as Andrew’s other jobs, not nearly a daily job, but Andrew will be ordered to drop Neil off around town. For what, Andrew couldn’t really say. He’s sure all these buildings and their labels are fronts for what’s really going on inside, and every guess about what they’re a front for is worse than the last. 

Andrew really should know better, but he can’t seem to resist getting dragged into conversations with Neil against his better judgement. Maybe it’s his protective instincts rearing up, maybe it’s his innate curiosity about the enigma in front of him despite the flashing danger signs, maybe it’s his weakness for pretty, insufferable, sharp-tongued boys. 

More likely, it’s some unholy combination of the three. Regardless, Andrew finds himself with a rather chatty shadow who seems all too willing to share pieces of his secrets in return for Andrew’s own. 

It’s a bit of a balancing act, with neither of them wanting to lay themselves completely bare. The exchange continues nevertheless, with past tragedies and trials and tribulations slipping like water through the cracks in your fingers, falling drop by drop no matter how hard you shove your hands together to try and stop the flow. 

Andrew hates and craves that vulnerability in turns, riding the rush of voicing things he’s left long unsaid even as it leaves him feeling raw and torn open. 

With every truth Neil shares, Andrew finds himself more intrigued, more interested, despite himself. Neil is like a puzzle where Andrew keeps unearthing lost pieces and tacking them onto the bigger picture, but there doesn’t seem to be an edge in sight—it keeps stretching on, but somehow Andrew isn’t bored yet. 

That in and of itself is concerning, but with it comes a flood of new feelings. The protective instinct doesn’t die down. It keeps growing stronger and stronger until Andrew is vibrating in his skin with a desire to burn down the stupid house in front of him, a desire to lock Neil’s father inside and hear his screams as he goes down with it. 

The attraction is similarly familiar but for its intensity—for the degree to which it grows to consume his thoughts, the degree to which he looks at Neil and craves. The desire to touch is nothing new, but the desire to linger? To just be close, like when they’re standing shoulder to shoulder against the wall of the garage as they smoke, like when Neil decides his new seat in the car is shotgun instead of in the back? 

God. Andrew’s setting himself up for a fall, and he’s too stupid to pull back. 

He guesses he’s lucky that Neil is falling, too—that they’re falling together, that they’re lines of a parachute too hopelessly tangled to separate and pull the plug. 

The first kiss, and everything after it, feels almost inevitable.

* * *

Given Andrew’s track record—given _Neil’s_ track record—it’s amazing that things go as smoothly as they do for as long as they do. 

Yes, their trauma doesn’t go away, and no, its sharp edges don't make clear communication or being closer any easier. Yes, they have to hide that they’re together at every moment—though they’d have to do that anywhere, the stakes are especially high here and now. Yes, Andrew bites down on his rage every time he sees Neil’s scars, mental and physical, and knows that the man responsible for most of them is still a part of Neil’s life. Yes, Andrew hates to take Neil on his father’s “errands” and leave him there, not knowing what Neil is about to be walking into and knowing that he can’t protect him.

For every challenge, though, there’s a moment with Neil that makes it feel worth it. 

There’s Neil flicking bubbles at Andrew’s face as he washes and polishes the car. There’s Neil kneeling next to Andrew, passing over tools and purposefully brushing their fingers as Andrew tinkers away at the belly of the beast. There’s Neil’s face and how devastatingly real he looks with grease on his cheeks, his neck, from how Andrew has touched him. There’s Neil’s hand in his, resting atop Neil’s thigh as Andrew drives them through this shitty city. There’s the way Neil spreads the blanket from the trunk across the backseat before he pulls Andrew down on top of him, the way the heat of their bodies coming together warms the car and fogs the windows.

It only takes one night, though, to throw everything into question. 

Andrew is pulling the car into the garage after a late “drop off” for Wesninski—one so late that the moon is already high in the sky, for all that he can barely see it through the clouds. Everything is business as usual as Andrew turns the car off, as he gets out to do his loop around the vehicle to check that it hasn’t been so much as scratched…

… And then he sees Neil, hidden in the corner behind one of the workbenches, folded in on himself like he’s trying to make himself disappear. 

Neil’s name leaves Andrew’s lips, sharp with fear. “ _Neil._ ”

Neil flinches before settling against the wall again, looking up at Andrew with a tremulous smile. “Andrew,” he responds, somehow still so _soft_. 

Andrew finds himself kneeling in front of Neil without a thought, his hand reaching out on its own to turn Neil’s face so he can examine the vivid bruise blooming against his cheekbone. Neil leans into Andrew’s touch even as he’s hurting, and Andrew’s chest feels tight at the sight of it. 

Neil shifts his arms from where they’re held against his chest and Andrew’s eyes drop to follow the motion. They catch on the bloodstain showing against the cotton of his shirt and he’s moving Neil’s arms further out of the way, damn near ripping off the buttons in his haste to see, to know, to try and fix whatever is wrong.

Neil is unresisting, just staring at Andrew as he works, neither helping nor hindering. Staring with those blue eyes, downcast, resigned and seemingly hopeless. Andrew hates it. 

The parting of the fabric reveals several shallow, thin cuts across Neil’s chest, running parallel and between the lines of his ribs. It seems as though they’re starting to clot on their own, but they’re still bleeding sluggishly—still dripping blood down across the other scars of Neil’s torso, a kaleidoscope of suffering and survival, past and present. 

Andrew rocks back on his heels to stand, movements jerky. It feels like his heart is slamming against his ribcage, like his vision is narrowed with the pure _anger_ pumping from his heart. 

He grabs the first aid kit and blanket from the trunk of the car. He wraps the blanket around Neil’s shoulders and methodically sets about cleaning his cuts with antiseptic. They’re so extensive that he just stares at them when he goes to put on bandages. What is he supposed to do? How is he supposed to wrap them? Hell if he fucking knows, but he manages somehow. 

Neil is silent the entire time. What is there to say? They both know who did this. The why doesn’t matter—the why is just an excuse.   
Andrew pulls a knife from his calf and eyes it consideringly, feeling his eyes flicking past the garage door to the house that lies beyond it, and that’s when Neil speaks up, his hand moving to hover over Andrew’s wrist. 

“Andrew, don’t.” 

“Why?” Andrew asks. Why not? What’s stopping him from going in there, giving back a fraction of the pain he sees before him? 

“You know you wouldn't win,” Neil says. Andrew thinks to himself that determination alone could get him pretty damn far. 

“Then what am I supposed to do? Just sit here? Watch? Let this happen again?” 

“Fine, then. You can walk away. You don’t have to see.” 

Andrew shakes his head. They both know that it’s too late to walk away, and that even if he could, Andrew wouldn’t. He wouldn’t leave Neil behind. 

They sit in silence, both considering. 

“Run away with me,” Andrew says, the plans taking a nebulous and half-defined shape in his head. 

Neil raises an eyebrow and shakes his head like he thinks that Andrew is joking. 

“Run away with me,” Andrew says, hearing the emotion leaking into his voice—the almost pleading quality of his voice is grating to his own ears. 

“Where would we go, Andrew?” 

“Anywhere would be better than here.”

“And if he came after us? Because you know he would come after us.” Neil looks down at his lap, and Andrew can see the thoughts running through Neil’s head at the way his shoulders tense and tense like a string about to snap. 

Andrew tilts Neil’s head up so that they’re looking one another right in the eye, keeping his hands on Neil’s chin so he can’t turn away. “We would deal with it,” he says, meaning every word. “We could go right now. He’s an idiot—he wouldn’t realize for hours.” 

“Like it’s that easy? To just pick up and leave?” Neil retorts, sharp and biting like he’s holding back an incredulous laugh.

“It could be,” Andrew says. 

It is. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! I’d love to hear your thoughts if you’re up to sharing them :)  
> If you'd like, feel free to hit me up on [ tumblr](http://nightquills.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/nightquills) as well.


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